


Viewpoints

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: Avengers Fan Fiction Collection [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Feels, Mild Smut, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, i apologise for nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a different angle is an entirely different story.<br/>Sometimes a different angle is the same story, but worse.<br/>And sometimes its both.</p><p>(#sorrynotsorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Retrospect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RETROSPECT  
> /ˈrɛtrəspɛkt/ noun  
> a survey or review of a past course of events or period of time

The house they've found is strange.

On the run from HYDRA, agents Barton and Romanov found refuge in an old stone manor-castle-thing. A _very_ old stone manor-castle-thing. It's drafty and the structural integrity is questionable at best, but it does its job in putting a roof over their heads. The master bedroom is somewhat decent, still intact with a bed and sheets and everything. This is, of course, because they found it five years ago and have tried to upkeep this one room. Its the only one they need, and they have only ever used this particular safehouse when with one another. Tonight is no different, in that respect. No one knows where they are.

* * *

On a high from the thrill and adrenaline of running from HYDRA, they soon find themselves half-naked, kissing furiously and making a mess of the neat bedsheets. They are so impatient that Natasha just grabs him when they walk in the door and pulls him down on top of her on the bed.

He laughs against her mouth, "I admire your enthusiasm." He remarks, cocky as always, even though the events of the past week have shaken him to his foundations. Whilst Natasha assures him Fury is alive, SHIELD is very much dead. He dreads to think what he'd do without her, even more than he dreads the prospect of HYDRA finding them. No way would their deaths be quick. They are too big and too SHIELD to warrant such mercy. But perhaps, what has shaken him most, is when he was pulled back by Peirce to track down Steve and Natasha (who had apparently "gone rogue"), and he came. Of course, he figured it out quickly, and after a chase through the woods and several deliberate missed arrows and a mostly-convincing fight with Steve (resulting in his being pinned to the ground by the super-solider) he informed Captain America about the tracker in his suit. That in itself had not scared him, so much as the fact that, for a moment, before he twigged, he had been legitimately hunting Natasha, like it was 2002 all over again, when she was a KGB fugitive and he was the hawk sent to kill her with his talons. This reminder makes him pull her that much closer to him.

She smiles a little at his comment, kicking off her boots and digging her heels into the small of his back, indicating what she wants, and that she wants it now. His lips come away from hers to kiss the piece of exposed flesh at the top of her catsuit-like uniform. It's a synthetic fabric like Kevlar, making it very bullet proof but not great to run your hands over, especially when what he wants to run his hands over is her bare skin. The little piece of exposed flesh at her collar becomes a slightly bigger piece, then a slightly more bigger one, and so on as he eases the zipper on the front down, down, down, kissing her torso as he goes. He stops when he feels cotton-y fabric beneath his lips, for his eyes never left hers as he worked downwards, having only paused to grin at her expression when he kissed her navel.

She pulls her arms out of the uniform languorously, and he takes great pleasure in easing it off her legs, teasing it especially slowly off her inner thighs, and doing so in the least efficient way possible, so he can touch the soft skin there as much as he possibly can. She swears at him in Russian under her breath, but he knows she loves it (and him) regardless.

She then pushes him backwards so he is standing against the edge of the bed, standing between her legs. She takes great pleasure in undoing the belt of his trousers - the same synthetic material as her suit - and easing the fabric down around his thighs. She folds down his boxers, and with a wicked glint in her eye, she is on him.

He gasps, a little surprised at the suddenness of it, but mostly because her mouth is soft and warm and she knows him better than he knows himself; knows what makes him tick like a stopwatch. His breathing is ragged and his hands grow restless, but he refuses to touch her hair and force her on to him because he knows she hates that - for, every single one of her marks, back when the KGB made her follow through, forced her onto them. He refuses to be anything like them, loving her for her - but he finds it hard because he need to hold on to something, hard. As such, she guides his hands onto her shoulders, and his head tips back as he lets himself get lost in the feeling, safe in the knowledge that she is far harder to break than he is strong.

All too soon, the warmth of her lips is gone, but all in all he does not mind. He doesn't want to lose himself inside her mouth, he wants to lose himself inside _her_. She clearly has the same idea, because she wraps her legs around his hips and pulls him sharply forwards, so that he falls. The only reason he doesn't land on her is because he throws out his arms to stop himself. She grins, evidently pleased that she has pulled one over him, but he smirks back. _God_ he loves her. Everything about he from her sexy little mouth to her gorgeous figure to her wonderful mind and her beautiful personality. There is not one thing he would change about Natasha. _His_ Natasha.

So he shimmies down to where her panties still hide his prize, pausing for a good few minutes to appreciate the fact that she does not wear a bra underneath her uniform - and from the sound she makes and the way she pulls at his hair, she appreciates it even more - and pulls them off slowly, kissing her inner thigh as he eases them down, and once they're finally off, moves to the side and returns her earlier favour with vigour.

Her response is instantaneous. She writhes beneath him; curses and praises and calls his name so loud that he is almost a little disappointed they are alone; there is so much thrill to be had for the both of them at the prospect of getting caught (in the non-we-are-going-to-kill-you way). Her legs wrap around his neck and his fingers dig into her hips whilst her own hands twist in the bedsheets - he hears a faint _ri-i-ip_ but is too turned on by the sounds _she's_ making to give a damn. When she quietens and stills and her mouth forms the _O_ shape of release, and he feels wetness around his face, he grins in a mission accomplished.

She has told him before that he is the only man to do that to her. None of her marks were interested in returning her favours, and even if they had been, she was not about to let them see her in such a vulnerable position. She was _always_ in control when it came to marks. But with Clint, it was a battle of sorts, a give and take, and he felt a wash of pride as he watched her in the afterglow, regaining her breath.

After a moment, the grin returns to her face and the glint to her eyes. She takes his face in her hands and pulls him up (sitting up slightly) to pull his lips to hers. He crawls up to her, eventually with his elbows by her neck, her heels digging into the small of his back. He breaks away to kiss down her throat, she nibbles at his earlobe, and one of her hands slides down to align him with her.

It takes a great deal of self control for him not to lose it there and then and simply pound into her. But he doesn't because that's not how they do it. Sure, they like it rough, but sometimes they like it slow, too. The gentle, seductive, lazy atmosphere when they have all the time they want and need; a rare occurrence when they're practically on 24/7 call from Fury or Coulson. But now, at the very least for tonight, they don't need to rush, and they can just enjoy each other. It's slow, but heated and passionate; they suck marks into each other's skin, bite each other's lips, map the contours of each other's bodies until, once more, he feels her come apart again beneath him.

Now its her turn, and she moves against him. Now is the time to be fast and rough, not because they don't have time but because they live fast and rough and there is no better reminder of their being alive. She builds him up quickly, as only she can, and he starts to feel himself let go. He gives a low groan of her name, and swears under his breath. He vaguely notices her shudder at the sultry, gruff tone of his voice.

In the last moment before the world goes black and he sees stars, he feels her flip them over so she's on top, and he cries out her name like a curse and a prayer. His fingers dig in to her sides and if she hadn't flipped them he'd be burying his face into her shoulder. In the vague edges of sense and reality, he feels her own fingers dig into his skin, hears his own name cursed to the sky. Under the ecstasy, he smiles.

As the world begins to re-solidify and he comes down from his high, he notices that she's perfectly composed atop him. Her face is calm, but not sated and lazy like he is, and there was a strength to her; she isn't sprawled out, lying on top of him. She is sat, hands on his chest, looking at him almost as though he were a specimen to study. That is strange; they'd done this before. Many times, actually, and she'd never been this composed afterwards. She'd been a quivering, exhausted, beautiful mess lying sated, on top of him (or below, but usually on top). Usually, it takes her much longer to put herself back together, and rearrange her face into the Widow mask that most people know her by.

Nonetheless, he smiles at her, because she is beautiful anyway, and she is Natasha and she is his and he is hers. He only feels a slight twinge of annoyance that she hasn't fallen apart as completely as she normally does; has been able to recover so quickly; hasn't come apart like some beautiful puzzle for his eyes only. In the soft light, with her hair glinting red, you could almost forget that she was the Black Widow, that she could kill men in a hundred different ways. She could have killed him over a million times since the day they'd met. Snapped his neck with her legs, strangled him, possibly even ripped out his throat. But she hadn't. And in this light, you could forget that she was even able to, the soft glow of the sun turning her to benevolent flame.

But she _is_ the Black Widow and the best at what she does, he only realises the danger when it's too late. He only realises the danger when he feels her knife slide into his stomach, and the bloody, deadly, blank expression of the Widow maps her face. Its the same face he's seen a thousand times; marks and targets SHIELD has deemed too dangerous, all fall for the same silly little act - just like he did, even if she was just playing it subtle - all see that expression in their last moments. He's seen this look a thousand times, he just never thought he'd be on the receiving end. He lies there, confused and horrified as he tries and fails to hold in his guts. He tries to speak, to ask 'why' but all that comes out of his mouth is a gurgle and some blood.

And he watches, helpless to do anything but, as she pulls on her SHIELD uniform, corrects her hair and wipes her knife on his trousers, still bunched around his knees. If she wasn't such a betraying, lying whore he might have thanked her for at least pulling his boxers up again.

But she is.

So he doesn't.

And he sees in those eyes he thought he knew that this was always the way it would end. There was never gong to be any other way. Whilst she may have enjoyed the release he provided, she never loved him, not like he loved her. To her, he was just another mission.

As his vision goes black, he hears a knock on the door, and a man comes in. The man pays no attention to the dying archer on the bed, trying and failing to hold in his gut with no shirt and trousers around his knees like some over-eager seventeen-year-old. Clint knows that face, and the name that goes with it. Jasper Sitwell. If he had had the energy, he might have sworn at them disgustedly as Sitwell places his hand on her hip. He sees in her eyes that she doesn't like the contact, but he sees no regret. No grief at what she has done, no sadness at opening him up for the world to see. She doesn't meet his eyes, but that's only because she never likes looking at dying faces. She told him that, long ago.

But was it real? Was any of it real? Did she ever actually love him or was he just an ongoing mission? When SHIELD first brought him in, he never thought he'd be able to give himself so completely to someone. But he had: her. And it seemed he'd placed his faith in the wrong person. Because she'd taken his heart and thrown it away; ground it into pieces, burned it, and thrown away the remains like so much trash.

"Well done, Ms Romanov." Sitwell comments, looking down at the dying Hawk with its intestines all over the floor. Sitwell is not like Natasha, he seems to find amusement in death. He leers at Clint, almost as if to say _I win_. Not as though taunting Clint with his own impending death, but the fact that he is the one who will spend time with Natasha now.

But Clint, for all the betrayal he feels, does know her. Even if he wasn't aware of himself enough to know he was being played, even if he didn't know every trick in her book, he knows Natasha at least a little. There is always a small truth in each lie, because that little truth makes the lie ten times stronger. He knows her favourite colour (light blue), her favourite food (Black Forest Gateau), her biggest fears, and her favourite memories. He knows that there was something there, something meaningful, even if she is not willing to acknowledge it, instead preferring to burn it until it is unrecognisable and no one can prove its existence. And to do that so completely, he must be burned with those memories. He knows her, at least a little, and he knows that Sitwell will never kiss her, never touch her, never know her in the same way he did; be it physical, mental or sometjhing else. There was trust and truth in her lies and betrayal. There are no such gems of reality in her relationship (if you can even call it that) with Sitwell.

Natasha smiles, her lips as red as her hair and the blood of her former partner she has just spilled. She smiles winningly at Sitwell, and because he's an idiot, and doesn't know Natasha like Clint does, he thinks the smile Clint's seen her wear to impress hundreds of men is real, and specially for him. But Clint knows better, and is willing to bet that Sitwell will end up in the same dead boat. His only regret - including trusting Natasha, because some idiotic part of him loves her even though she has betrayed him, and he wouldn't wish to have never met her, even in exchange for his life - is that he will not see Sitwell die with his own two eyes.

The last thing Clint hears before the darkness finally claims him is the last thing he ever expected Natasha Romanov to say.

"Hail Hydra."


	2. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PERSPECTIVE  
> /pəˈspɛktɪv/ noun  
> a particular attitude towards or way of regarding something; a point of view

The darkness swallows him whole, and clearly has no intention of letting him go. Indeed, it does not and refuses to relent in the slightest. And, only a few moments after his eyes cease to see and what little of his hearing capacity remains is quashed by oncoming death, his heart stops beating. His lungs stop working and his breathing stops, one by one each of his organs still and lose function. Bit by bit, he slips away.

And he dies.

* * *

"Excellent work, Ms Romanov." Sitwell leers at Clint's body, whilst Natasha, emotionless and blank as she may seem, is turmoil inside.

 _Clint_. The only person she felt she could love, the only person she trusted with secrets, even stupid ones like her favourite colour. He was not her only friend, but he was certainly her best friend, and surely much more. She had seen the pain, the  _agony_ in his eyes as he had faded away. It seems she has done her job at convincing him of her indifference a little too well. Her time with him had made her more human than she could have ever dared believe whilst under the KGB's thumb. He would never, _could_ never be meaningless.

But she has a mission to complete, and she knows this was mercy. Compliance will be rewarded, but only after extensive torture. And even though she thinks Clint would stand a reasonable chance of surviving that torture, she was not willing to put him through it. Her knife, his death, was a mercy. Had she not done that, had she even shown emotion whilst doing so, it would not have been a mercy. But she knows how to do a mercy killing. It is not the first time death has been the preferable option.

And it will certainly not be the last.

She wonders, for a moment, what lies beyond. Is it truly all white and pure? In which case, surely she will burn, for she would not belong there. But Clint had more friends than a deadly Soviet-trained assassin. He was a good guy, he did his job but didn't enjoy it,  _ever_ , whereas she, on occasion, got a savage thrill when she took a life; gave a pedophile justice, a murderer a taste of his own medicine. Sometimes she would drag out the deaths if they really deserved it; a rapist (as well as the leader of a dangerous terrorist groups, which is why the Black Widow and not some random field agent was sent to kill him) comes to mind. But Clint never had.

Or would it be nothing at all. Would it be blackness and emptiness? Once, she had asked an agent, just in passing in conversation on a stakeout, what death would be like. He had been a rocket-scientist whom Coulson was considering for a field team, before he died. The rocket-scientist had claimed that death was the same as "things were before you were born".

And before she was born meant before she was captured by the Red Room, wiped each year to think she was a ballet dancer, then infused with the fire of a super-serum variant that blazed her insides, gave her back the memories they stole, and stole any chance of children - not that the life she led would have offered the chance to settle down and have kids anyway. But before she was born meant...pure. Pur **er** at the very least, she was still the Black Widow.

_Before you were born._

She liked that.

"Hail Hydra." she smiles prettily at Sitwell, and her enhanced hearing hears Clint's breathing stop. Her heart tears in two, but she keeps the smile plastered on her face. Sitwell, idiot as he is, clearly believes the smile is genuine, and smirks at her. The hand on her hip comes to her waist. She suppresses a shudder. But she has done this many times before. If she can fool a clammy, fat, fifty-year-old that she genuinely _enjoys_ the sensation of his grabbing at her like a greedy child, she can fool Sitwell that she is eager for his advances.

It's a little harder, though, when she's dying inside after killing her partner - her partner in every sense of the word - even if it _was_ a mercy.

Sitwell moves, presumably to kiss her, but she never knows for sure, as she stops him in his tracks with her knife to his throat. His eyes widen behind his glasses, and she sees genuine shock and hurt. _As if I'd sleep with you_. She snarls at him in her mind, though her gaze and expression remain cool and collected. _I wouldn't even do that for a mission, and why would I do that at all when I had Clint. If it weren't for sick traitors like you, he might still be alive._ She, too, knows she is a sick traitor, but HYDRA forced her hand. Clint was an obvious HYDRA target; a Fury loyalist and a deadly shot. She fought up close and personal, he fought from far away, and so was just as difficult to kill. Perhaps even more so. If she had not killed Clint, HYDRA would have, and it would have been far slower than her method. HYDRA is SHIELD, SHIELD is HYDRA. There is no hiding from their many heads with their many eyes.

The knife (intentionally) nicks the skin of Sitwell's throat, just on his Adam's apple, when he swallows nervously, and he winces with the pain. She scoffs at him in her mind. He was never a field agent, not even when he was younger. He isn't very good at _anything_ , really. Except betrayal. Other SHIELD agents may not have been field like her and Clint, but they were still smart and useful and ingenious. Sitwell is none of these, and when she slowly drives the knife into his chest, puncturing his heart, she lets the mask slip a little and shows him the true, savage beast the Widow truly is.

"Traitor." she snarls, and spits in his face. Offence crosses his face, a flicker amongst the sea of agony he's feeling. His eyes register absolute terror just before she twists the knife, and he crumples, dead.

"Cut off one head, two grow back." she tells the body, "But I didn't cut off your head."

* * *

She lies down next to the body, the shell of what was once her best friend in the world and the only person she ever loved. She pulls up his trousers and even replaces his black t-shirt, because he deserves dignity in death. The black fabric grows shiny and sticky with his drying blood, but its not like there's anyone to mind. She then moves one of his bloody hands from the wound on his stomach and wraps it around herself, keeping the other rested on his torso as though he is asleep. She closes his eyes with her fingers and lays her head on his chest, where his heart is silent and still. She has not cried in years, not since she was a little girl back in '57, being trained in the Red Room. But she cries now; her eyes well up and a single tear trails down her nose to drip onto his shirt.

She raises her knife, for the last time, and digs it into her own stomach now. A strangled cry escapes her lips; she knows how to compartmentalise, but even so it hurts. She likes that it hurts, though. She needs it to hurt. It is her punishment for her mercy; her awful, awful mercy. She opens herself up like she opened him, then throws the knife aside. One of her hands is curled against her body, the other covering the hand on Clint's torso. She leans up a little and kisses his jaw, light and soft and sad. Lying on the bed, if it weren't for the blood, they might have been lovers drifting off to sleep. If it weren't for HYDRA, there would be no blood, and they _would_ have been lovers drifting off to sleep.

"I'm sorry." she tells him as her own vision starts to darken. She knows he can't hear her, but she has to say it, even if she's the only one listening. "I'm sorry, Clint. Please forgive me." She closes her eyes as though she is falling asleep, and curls a little closer to him. He is still warm, warmer than her even, but that is no change. She was frozen inside; rock and ice, and he was the only one who ever could have thawed her.

In her last breath, before the darkness claims her too, and she finds out once and for all what lies beyond the veil, she whispers the last words she will ever say, and the last words she will ever hear. She wishes they had been the last words Clint had heard, but if they were, then it would not have been a mercy to kill him. Cruelty is protection in her life. Or what's left of it. As her final phrase ends, so does she.

"I love you."


End file.
